


Half Our Shadows

by crossroadswrite



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Black Butler Fusion, Demon Victor Nikiforov, Happy halloween, Implied Temporary Character Death, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Open Ending, Really Fucking Vague Honestly, Shinigami Katsuki Yuuri, Trigger Warnings, Vignettes, an instance of mind control, if you know how shinigami work, that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-31
Updated: 2017-10-31
Packaged: 2019-01-27 13:47:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12583232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crossroadswrite/pseuds/crossroadswrite
Summary: Forever sounds very appealing when you're human and in love. When you're polar opposite creatures of heaven and hell in love? Not so much.





	Half Our Shadows

**Author's Note:**

> The biggest shoutout to [Minna](http://ladydrace.tumblr.com%22) for continuing to be an angel with betaeing my stuff <3
> 
> Some things about this fic. It may contain some **trigger warnings** including some mentions of death and suicide and whatnot. If you are triggered by this or if it makes you squeamish, _please please please_ do not read this. Take good care of yourselves kids.
> 
> If you're unsure if this is something you can handle or not, jump to the End Notes where I will describe all trigger warnings this fic contains.
> 
> Also! I was trying to improve my descriptions in the begining of this fic and that Did Not Work, and I'm very sorry about at least 2/5 of this.
> 
> Happy Halloween!!!! Have some non-linear weirdass spoops I guess!!!!

[Book of Eros]

The sound of his low-heeled dress shoes on the pavement echo sharply around him, marking a staccato as Yuuri briskly walks down the street. The wind scrapes across his cheeks and Yuuri wishes that he had some sort of scarf to wrap himself in. He rubs the sleeves of his pressed suit against his face to try to rub some warmth into his cheeks, nudges his glasses a little askew with the motion.

Winters in Russia are always harsh and unforgiving, and Yuuri tries to push past the chill in the air, a shiver making its way down his spine, seeping into his bones. He needs better clothing.

Out of the corner of his eye he catches one of the lampposts flickering, and he slows down a little, looking over, before he quickens his pace again.

He checks his wristwatch, mouth pressing into an apprehensive line. 

Yuuri rounds a corner and stops. He checks his watch, looks around the street in confusion, and checks his watch again. He’s on time. Yuuri takes the ledger out of the inner pocket of his tailcoat and flips it open, double-checking that he got the time right, looks back at his watch.

04:13:08 on the dot. It’s eight milliseconds past.

Yuuri sighs. He’ll have to work overtime for this. He leans back against one of the lampposts and flips through the ledger. Maybe something unexpected happened and the Record Keepers got the time wrong. Yuuri looks around again, frowning. Then he sees the railing that prevents foolish people from falling into the river. He sighs heavier, longer, more resigned. 

Going for a swim is the last thing he wants right now.

He takes a couple of steps until he reaches the railing and looks over at the freezing dark waters of the river, trying to  _ see _ when he only has the light of the candle-lit post directly behind him. The chilled metal of the railing bites into his fingers as the light coat of snow covering it melts under the warmth of his palms.

Yuuri leans a little further, trying to squint better and  _ of course _ , of course it’s in the wa-

A noise catches his attention and he looks over his shoulder, then freezes. His shadow is gone.

Not only his shadow, but the ground around the post which had been previously a faint dull yellow has been completely swallowed by a dark stain of black that is slowly crawling its way to Yuuri’s feet. He hiccups a gasp and presses himself against the railing, heart hammering-

The pool of black stops shy of kissing his shoes and then lifts upwards, like smoke or murky water. It shapes itself into something vaguely humanoid looking, sharp sharp sharp teeth and two bright circles of red that stare Yuuri down and pin him there.

It grows until it’s taller than him, and leaning towards him, hovering, suffocating-

Yuuri’s breath hitches as those sharp, sharp teeth get closer to his face, his neck.

“Hello, lover,” it says.

Yuuri’s hands clench on the railing, heart pounding.

“Hello, Victor.”

 

[Book of Mania]

Victor’s dress shoes are noiseless as he strides down the tiled hallway, smiling pleasantly at the morning staff that mingles about, giving them cheerful “ _ Good mornings _ ” that make them slow down a little, take time off their day to smile back. They know better than to try and stop him for a chat. Victor lives on a very tight and rigorous schedule he sets for himself.

He has a role to play after all, and he will play it  _ impeccably _ .

“Boss,” he calls out, knocking on the double doors at the end of the hallway. He waits exactly five seconds - as he usually does - before he lets himself in.

The room is pitch black, blinds shut tight against the morning sun. There’s an air of calm and stillness that permeates the room this early in the morning, an air of frailty as the person sleeping in the king sized bed isn’t disturbed by Victor walking in.

He clicks his tongue and moves towards the double windows, grabbing the blinds and jerking them open. Sun spills into the room almost violently, crashing over the bed. Victor opens the double windows as well for good measure, letting the freezing morning air swirl into the room, carrying with it the cries of seagulls and the honking of cars.

“Close the window!” the figure on the bed groans.

“Good morning, Boss. I hope you are well-rested today.”

“Fuck off,” Yuri Plisetsky hisses at him.

“I trust you’re capable of dressing yourself up for your appointment at ten,” Victor says, walking over to the closet and picking out something that isn’t completely atrocious. He lays it down on the ottoman at the end of the bed.

“I’m not a  _ child _ .”

Victor looks up and smiles blandly.

“I’ll be coming in with breakfast shortly.” Victor executes a short bow and turns on his heel, moving out of the room.

He’s feeling particularly indulgent today, so he pushes the knob down slowly, giving Yuri time to-

The knife swishes through the air, aimed expertly at his back. If Victor were human it would cause a lot of damage. If he were human he’d probably be slumped against the door, choking on his own blood. As it is, he catches the knife by the hilt between two fingers without looking. He turns back to Yuri, who blows his hair out of his face annoyedly.

“Your aim has gotten better, Boss.”

“ _ Whatever _ . Don’t bring me any of that disgusting oatmeal shit again.”

“Certainly, Boss,” Victor demures and leaves the room quietly.

 

[Book of Pragma]

Yuuri swirls the campagne in his flute, carefully tucking himself into a corner of the ballroom, away from the twirling couples and way too close to the orchestra. He thinks he might go a little deaf from how loud everything is here; the music and voices and delicate clinking of glasses resounding off the little corner Yuuri has backed himself into.

He feels weird, dressed in a suit that isn’t quite tailored for him, too long on the legs and too tight around his thighs and hanging off his frame awkwardly. It makes him feel out of place among all these elaborately dressed people.

Yuuri tips back his flute of champagne and feels the carbon dioxide fizzle on his tongue, the slight bitterness of the champagne clinging to the back of his throat.

The music is winding to a close, and the musician in charge of the cymbal slams them together, making Yuuri flinch and edge away a little. He touches his ear, trying to dispel the ringing.

This was a bad idea.

Yuuri looks forlornly at his empty glass, and decides that the best thing to do would be to find one of the waiters that are displaying their skill at balancing heavy trays with countless beautiful little flutes that noblemen keep plucking up like flowers, and then carelessly throwing away.

It takes him a couple of seconds to gather up the will to move out of his little corner and venture out into the open ballroom, where people will undoubtedly try to stop him and give him their condolences.

Yuuri doesn’t care to listen to how he has failed, to how he had come so so close to making his company proud and then…

“Pardon my forwardness,” an accented voice calls. Yuuri freezes and ever so slowly turns around. “But I noticed your glass is empty, could I offer you another?”

A flute of champagne is tipped towards Yuuri in offering.

Yuuri takes it with trembling fingers, eyes wide and breath locked in his chest.

“My name is Victor N-”

“Nikiforov,” Yuuri finishes, suddenly forgetting all of his manners and flushing violently. He ducks his head. “I- I know. I’m a fan of your work.”

“Oh,” Victor Nikiforov says, not sounding terribly insulted by Yuuri’s presence. Yuuri chances a look at him and is surprised to find him looking something akin to pleased.

“What a coincidence,” Nikiforov says. “I’m a fan of  _ yours _ .”

Yuuri blinks at him. He must look ridiculous, holding two flutes of champagne and looking stupidly up at a renowned patron of the arts like Victor Nikiforov, who has written critiques for the Bolshoi Academy and is rumored to take tea with the Tsar.

“You don’t need to be kind, Mr. Nikiforov. I know I have failed today.”

“Are you accusing me of lying, Mr. Katsuki? Because I can assure you I’m not in the habit of doing such a thing.”

“I- I didn’t mean-”

“Nor am I in the habit of paying undeserved compliments. If you’re so familiar with my work, you should know this,” Nikiforov continues, calmly sipping his champagne. He arches one eyebrow at Yuuri and his lips twist into a little smile. “Do you accept my compliment now, Mr. Katsuki?”

He looks devastating in his tailored, sharply-fitted suit and the gold accents in the trim of his pocket scarf, of his shirt, of his tie; he looks like he was painted to compliment this ballroom with its extravagant murals and golden chandeliers kissed with diamonds.

Yuuri is devastated by him.

“I do not,” he says, and this clearly surprises Nikiforov to the point where his smirk drops. “I will accept them when I have earned them, and only then.”

Victor considers him, eyes trailing Yuuri from head to toe.

“And you feel as if you haven’t earned them tonight?”

“I do.” His words are steady, his posture strong, chin tipped up. Were Nikiforov shorter than him, Yuuri would have been looking down at him.

“And would you like to?”

That… was not the answer he was expecting.

“What?”

“Would you like to earn my compliments tonight?”

“What do you suggest?” Yuuri asks cautiously. He’s not sure Nikiforov isn’t the kind of person who would try to invite dancers into his bed. He's also not sure he could refuse, if the proposition was made.

“Nothing untoward,” Nikiforov reassures. “A dance. I would be most honoured to share a dance with you, Mr. Katsuki.”

Yuuri’s breath quietly whooshes out of him. Well…

He flags a passing waiter and deposits his flutes in the tray, before carefully plucking Nikiforov’s off his fingers and doing the same.

There’s something a little gratifying about the surprise on Nikiforov’s face as Yuuri offers him his hand.

“Would you care for a dance, Mr. Nikiforov?”

Nikiforov puts his hand on Yuuri’s, curling his fingers around his palm delicately.

“I would love to.”

 

[Book of Mania]

The little shop they walk into is the definition of hole in the wall, tucked away between two skyscrapers, with a dirty looking front as if the building hasn’t been touched in centuries and centuries while the rest of the city developed around it.

There’s a little rusty bell above the door that clanks unpleasantly when you push it open. He holds the door open for Yuri to step cautiously inside cautiously, eyes darting around wildly trying to assimilate everything at the same time, gaze locking on a couple of random trinkets pressed into overflowing shelves: dog-eared, spine-broken, yellow-paged books; jars so filthy you can’t hope to see what they contain; ink containers and ink pens with new scraps of paper tucked under them for testing the pens; a set of sharpened, shiny daggers, their metal contrasting with the rusted metal of an old trophy; a smattering of skulls.

Victor bows his head slightly towards one of the skulls, and wonders briefly who they are. He can never tell Minako and Mari apart. Not anymore

“Are you sure this is the right place?” Yuri asks.

“Quite.”

Yuri takes half a step forward, seemingly unwilling to continue.

“We can leave if you’re scared, Boss,” Victor suggests.

Yuri glares at him in a very specific way he has of glaring when he knows someone is baiting him but he can’t stand an insult to his ego. It’s delightful to watch that inner struggle happen. Such a stubborn, fiery soul.

Yuri moves forward into the store, stomping his boots and letting small puffs of dust lift up from the carpet. They weave their way through the small labyrinth of bookshelves until he gets to the only space that can’t be described as a cramped hallway. The front desk sits in the very back of the room. Like everything in here it’s cluttered, books upon books upon books under strange, sickening vials and concoctions. There’s a grander and sturdier bookshelf behind it, equally filled and with the addition of small cages where bone creatures slither about - rats and chameleons and snakes and rabbits.

The entire setup acts almost as a novelty Halloween frame around the figure bent over the desk, writing mellowly, head in one hand and disheveled hair falling over his eyes.

He doesn’t look up when they approach.

Victor’s lips curl up slightly.

“Hey! You!” Yuri shouts, clearly out of patient for being ignored. “You work here, right?”

The man lifts his head, face tilted towards Victor, eyes intent on him. Victor knows even if he can’t see them.

“On a leash again, Vitya?”

Victor’s lips finish curling into a smile. “It passes the time.”

“Hm. I wouldn’t know,” he sighs almost boredly.

“Hey!” Yuri yells, and slams his hands on the table, making a couple of vials clink and wobble dangerously. “I’m talking to you. Not him! Me!”

“And who are  _ you _ ?”

“My name is Yuri Plise-  _ why are you laughing _ ?”

Yuuri laughs so hard he falls on the floor, hitting what sounds very much like a pile of bones. It doesn’t seem to faze Yuuri. He just laughs and laughs until he’s wheezing for breath and can’t laugh anymore.

The pile of bones pads its way from behind the desk and towards Victor. Makkachin woofs soundlessly and Victor pats his skeletal head, gloved hands running over preserved bone.

Yuri is turning a very interesting shade of red.

Eventually, Yuuri heaves himself up onto his chair again. He looks at Victor, lips curled in amusement.

“Anything you’d like to discuss with me, Vitya?”

“A happy coincidence,” Victor tells him.

“Happy,” Yuuri snorts.

“What the hell is going on?” Yuri rounds on Victor, eyes narrowed, expression stormy.  _ Adorable _ . “Are you pulling something on me? How do you know each other?”

“I suppose I should introduce myself,” Yuuri says, still sounding amused. “My name is Yuuri. I’m your demon’s husband,” he says, lifting up the hand that still has a shiny golden ring on it and waving it cutely.

 

[Book of Pragma]

Yuuri stares at his hand, fingers spread, and sunlight shining between the gaps, blinding him as it catches on the gold band on his ring finger. He can still feel the phantom of Victor standing behind him, one hand on his waist, his hand besides Yuuri’s, his breath on his neck. His breath…

_ You promised. _

Yuuri promised. He promised…

_ Forever. _

Yuuri promised forever. That’s right. Yuuri’s glad he remembered.

The sun is blinding. It’s hurting his eyes, and he wants to blink against it, to look away. His eyelashes flutter for a brief second, barely even a breath. He doesn’t blink. The sun is hurting his eyes, but he can’t blink against it.

_ Yuuri, don’t you miss me? _

“ I do.”

He misses Victor with a gut-wrenching ache of being staked, stabbed, eviscerated, but Victor would want him to move on, he would-

_ You promised, _ something in him hisses. Something close to him. His breath on his neck...

Turning around to see is a bad idea. His muscles are locked.

_ We could be together _ .

“How?”

_ Step back into my arms. _

That makes no sense. Yuuri opens his mouth and shapes his tongue into words, pushes breath out of his throat, past his vocal chords, whistling into the harsh wind in the roof of this building. They come out soundless.

_ Don’t you trust me? _

“Of course.”

Of course, of course, of course. He’d do anything for Victor.

_ Anything? _

“Anything.”

_ Step back into my arms _ .

The sun is blinding and Yuuri has been staring at it for so long that is vision is slowly turning white. He can’t see his hand. He can’t see anything. He should look away, he should-

_ You promised… _

Yuuri promised. He takes one step back, can feel where his heel meets the open air, the wind blowing his jacket as it climbs the side of the building.

“Yuuri! Yuuri what are you  _ doing _ ?” Victor shouts. Yuuri drops his hand, eyes instinctively going to where he thinks Victor is, but he’s still blinded by the sun.

“I promised forever,” he says.

His breath on his neck tickles in a puff of laughter. But that shouldn’t happen, that shouldn’t-

_ Don’t keep me waiting, Yuuri. _

He shouldn’t keep Victor waiting.

He takes another step back; he falls.

 

[Book of Eros]

Victor doesn’t need to run. He can phase in and out of the corporeal world as he pleases, but running makes it fun, running slow enough to give the impression that his chaser has any chance whatsoever of catching him makes it interesting.

He licks his lips, tasting blood and the remnants of his dinner, still a little high on a large meal – a small drunk wedding party that stayed out a little too late, that trusted a little too easily.

He turns a corner- something wraps around his legs and he tumbles over, face first into the pavement. Chains locking tightly around his body, pinning his arms to his torso unforgivingly.

A hand grabs him by the arm and turns him over, pressing him into the ground.

“ _ Yuuri _ ,” Victor coos. “Is that a Death Scythe in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?”

Yuuri huffs, holding up the small scythe he was holding close to Victor’s stomach, pulling the heavy chain that’s attached to the handle and wraps around Victor.

“Oh,” he says, smirking as Yuuri pushes him down harder and presses the blade against his neck. “It’s  _ both _ .”

“Vitya, you’re making me work overtime.”

Victor drops his corporeal form, melting into the ground and slithering out of his chains. He materializes in front of Yuuri again, grins when he sees Yuuri already up, the handle of his kusarigama in one hand, the chain in the other.

“But it’s been so long since we danced,” Victor says, shifting his body weight and assuming a fighting stance to mirror Yuuri’s. “Neglecting your poor husband. How mean,  _ Yuuri _ .”

Yuuri sets the chain spinning, the heavy lead ball attached to the tip giving the weapon an extra edge of danger. "Well,” Yuuri starts, green eyes alight with amusement behind his glasses. “Would you care for a dance, Mr. Nikiforov?”

“I would love to,” Victor says, and lunges forward.

 

[Book of Mania]

Yuuri balances himself precariously on a chair piled high with books, standing on the tip of his toes to reach the top of one of the bookshelves where he keeps the important books. He has to get his face close to them, squint through his hair to read the titles before he finds what he needs, pulls it off the shelf, and carelessly lets it fall down.

“Watch where you’re dropping those,” Plisetsky hisses at him.

Yuuri is still delighted after knowing his name, holding the knowledge that his Victor is going to grant this boy’s wishes and then swallow his soul. A boy the same as him. He wishes he could’ve seen Victor’s face when he was summoned.

He drops another book down.

“ _ Hey!” _

Yuuri doesn’t pay him any mind, jumping down from his perch and landing perfectly.

“How do you intend to pay?” he asks, wiping the dust off his hands on his pants.

Plisetsky looks at him with annoyance etched into his face. “Name your price.”

Yuuri considers this for a minute. “His name,” he settles on. “What did you call him?” he asks, pointing at Victor who is still cooing at Makkachin.

“Vanya,” Plisetsky blurts out, clearly taken aback.

“Vanya?” Yuuri sounds out the word slowly.

Vanya.  _ Precious gift of God _ .

He bursts out laughing, loses his balance and falls over.

“What the  _ fuck _ ,” Plisetsky whispers, turning to Victor and gesturing down at Yuuri. “What’s wrong with him?”

“He has a very particular sense of humor,” Victor says.

Yuuri wheezes. “Why?” he asks. “Why Vanya?”

Plisetsky takes a moment to answer. And then, “it was the name of my Grandfather’s dog.”

Yuuri chokes, snorting laughter. He shoos Yuri out of his shop with a flick of his wrist.

“Your debt has been paid, you can run off now.”

“That’s it? You don’t want any money?” Plisetsky says, clutching the books Yuuri gave him and holding a couple of vials of suspicious liquid as far away from him as possible.

“I have no use for money,” Yuuri dismisses. “I’ll pick those books back up when you die, unless, of course, you manage to kill Vitya and I before your contract is up. Either way, a win for me.”

 

[Book of Pragma]

Victor should never go to bed drunk after experimenting with his Grandfather’s occultist books. He always ends up having the weirdest dreams. Although, none quite as weird as the one he’s having now.

He’s floating, something incorporeal holding him aloft from thighs to head, his arms and calves draping awkwardly down. He can’t move his head in this dream of his. All he knows is that it’s painfully bright and someone is approaching with the click of heels.

“The toll has been paid,” a voice says, echoing in his head, reverberating against his skull and scraping his ears raw. Victor tries to cover his ears with his palms but he can’t move.

“Do you accept the contract?” it continues.

Victor swallows. His head is pounding, he’s going to need to make a trip to the apothecary and buy some medicine for his hangover in the morning.

“What contract?”

“Your soul for forever with your lover,” it says. Victor can’t track down the source of the voice. It’s in his head, it’s in his throat, around his lips, pressing against his cranium. The sound of heels clicking on tile is drowned out when it speaks, but when it’s quiet Victor can hear them do a slow circle around him.

He swallows. His head is pounding and he shuts his eyes firmly. Maybe if he’ll say yes he’ll get to wake up.

“Yes,” he says.

The air goes still around him. Victor breathes out, opens his eyes to see if he will wake up. He doesn’t. Instead something rushes towards him, black smoke with eyes everywhere, sharp teeth and clawed hands that stab against his chest as those sharp mouths grin at him.

“ _ Good _ ,” it says. “Our numbers have been dwindling.”

And before Victor can ask what that means the claws dig deeper and he gets dragged straight into hell.

 

[Book of Mania]

“You think he’ll do it?” Yuuri asks the wind as he walks down Saint Petersburg streets at four a.m.

Victor crawls from the shadows and billows up around him, a black cloud curling around Yuuri’s ankles, his thighs, his neck, his wrists like a caress, before he solidifies into the old shape Yuuri fell in love with when he was still living.

He reaches over to kiss Yuuri on the cheek, stops them to kiss him on the mouth, slow and aching.

“You taste like dust and death, love,” he says, grabbing Yuuri’s bangs and pushing them out of his face.”

“You taste like sulfur and anguish,” Yuuri says, blinking owlishly at Victor’s red, red eyes. “You didn’t answer my question. Do you think he’ll kill us?”

Victor leans over, steals his breath away.

“We can only hope.”

 

[Book of Pragma]

Victor watches, body pressed against the floor and a hand gripping his hair, jerking his head up. He watches as a sharply dressed man stands beside his Yuuri, at the edge of a roof, whispering in his ear. He watches Yuuri take that final step back, watches him fall.

The man in the sharp suit pushes his glasses up his nose.

“Nothing personal,” he says. “We were understaffed, you know how it is,” he says with a shrug and jumps down after Yuuri.

Victor screams and screams and screams. He did  _ not _ take four months crawling his way out of hell to lose Yuuri now.

“Don’t worry, leech,” the one pressing him down laughs in his ear. “He’ll come back, and when he does, we’ll watch him kill you.”

 

[Book of Eros]

Yuuri spreads out on a rooftop, wheezing for breath.

“How the tables have turned, my Yuuri,” Victor laughs, sitting beside him, suit perfectly composed, and barely out of breath.

“A demon’s stamina is an unfair advantage,” Yuuri says between panting and trying to catch his breath.

“Your human stamina was unfair,” Victor says. “I miss it.”

Yuuri blinks at the night sky, the half-moon doing more to illuminate the streets than the candle-lit posts.

“I miss Hasetsu,” Yuuri says. “And dancing for a crowd.”

“I miss Makkachin. And food. It’s terrible not being able to enjoy food again.”

Yuuri turns his face towards him, breath being pressed out of his chest in a harsh woosh at how ethereal Victor looks. 

“I miss the color of your eyes,” Yuuri says quietly. “Blue suited you better.”

Victor turns to him, stares with his red red eyes- the only thing he can't change about his appearance.

“I miss yours.”

“Brown was much more boring,” Yuuri remarks. At least his eyes are more interesting than they were, two rings of offset green. Chartreuse phosphorescent, they call it at the Office.

“I have to disagree, my Yuuri. Your eyes were stunning.”

“You’re biased,” Yuuri tells him.

Victor grabs his hand, kisses the ring Yuuri refuses to take off. “So I am.”

 

[Book of Eros]

Yuuri comes back.

His eyes are green and his suit fits him in a way they never did.

Victor appears to him cautiously in some back alley and holds his breath, waits for Yuuri to look up from his ledger. He has no idea what they did to him, if he’ll get his Yuuri back or not.

Then Yuuri lifts his head. He smiles.

“Vitya,” he says.

Victor breathes out.

 

[Book of Pragma]

They stand on a boardwalk in Saint Petersburg, looking over the sea because Victor is, and will always be, a hopeless romantic and Yuuri can’t do much else but indulge him.

It’s early and the air is chilled, the sun just rising over the horizon, bathing everything in warm tones that do as much to keep Yuuri’s bones insulated from the cold as Victor is doing, wrapped around him, one arm looped around his waist, chin over his shoulder, arm raised up against the sun alongside Yuuri’s so they can watch as their shiny new rings glint.

The air is dry and Yuuri has trouble breathing. His chest is already so full so full so full, there’s already so much tucked in between his ribs, so much Victor has given him just today that he can hardly fit something as silly as breath into himself.

“Are you ready?” Victor asks, quietly, and then presses his lips against Yuuri’s jaw.

“For what?” He asks, still breathless with disbelief that Victor let him put this ring on his finger.

“For forever.”

“Forever’s a long time,” Yuuri says.

Victor starts dropping his hand, as if to pull back and away from him. Yuuri’s lungs squeeze painfully and his fingers snag against Victor’s before he can completely drop his hand. He brings Victor’s hand towards his lips, kisses the ring.

“I’m ready.”

**Author's Note:**

>  **TRIGGER WARNINGS:** If you don't know how Shinigami come to be, the answer is suicide. They're people who are being punished for commiting suicide. In this Yuuri is more or less mind controlled to jump off a building, becoming a shinigami. It's also heavily implied that Mari and Minako are dead and Yuuri keeps around their skulls. And idk if anyone is squeamish to this but Makkachin is completely made of bone and has been necromanced back to sentience. It's also of note that in the [Book of Mania] parts Yuuri and Victor are very tired of living lives they never wanted and they kind of want to die together. They're not in depressive states. They're just like, hey this sucks why the fuck did we have to be turned into creatures of the night, if this kid could kill us that'd be swell. I leave this fic open-ended so that doesn't really lead to anything and anyone can assume what they want from that
> 
>  
> 
> [i can't believe one (1) person suggested that they would like for me to try my hand at dark fic and this happens,,,,,, i have a tumblrs if yall wanna yell at me or smth](http://crossroadswrite.tumblr.com)


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